


Waves Like Walls

by jaksdaxter



Category: Five People You Meet in Heaven - Mitch Albom, Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Ambiguous Age, Character Death, Crossover In Concept, Gen, Probably a oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-05
Updated: 2013-12-05
Packaged: 2018-01-03 12:40:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1070564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaksdaxter/pseuds/jaksdaxter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were choices that could never be taken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waves Like Walls

Eren Yeager would have ever thought he’d outlive any of his friends. He thought he would save them. He thought he would be a hero. He thought he was going to avenge his mother himself. He thought he would have been stronger. He thought he would be a better person. He thought he would fly like a bird. He thought of many things, but none of what he had thought was thought any longer. 

Eren Yeager was now stretched out over the lush sands and put to sleep by the waves that rose like walls and calmed like a sweet lullaby. 

His eyebrows held the outline of despair. Bags ran below his lifeless eyes. Scars were scattered over his tan skin - markers of the days he lived like rings on tall and giant trees. The guilt-ridden body of Eren Yeager dug his hand into the sand in front of him, clinging to empty dreams, blood pooling and dissipating with the movement of the water.  
_

30 minutes earlier and Eren Yeager had pulled out of the swaying, soft grass and into the shadow of pine cones and green needles.  
His hands held a sharp carving, and he engraved a tally into the bottom of the trunk, lying down to draw a straight line. He was almost out of room. The marks were apparent in all parts of the trunk, varying in sizes. A sketchbook stayed at his side, barely holding up. He dropped the tool and opened it, flipping to the newest makeshift addition of paper, and gently picked up a pencil. Figures of half drawn people, trees, flowers, substances, objects, and writings were visible through the semi-transparent material, and the angry scribbles that had once been frequent became unfilled white as the page numbers increased. His eyes stayed downcast as he ran his pencil over the paper with an unsteady hand, adding a sloppy number and no words. He had no one to share them with. Not anymore that is, even if it had always been that way past a certain point.

Maybe if he had known that in 30 minutes he would never see tomorrow, perhaps he would speak, scream, even though nobody would hear him. Perhaps he would document everything around him; from the details of the forest to the taste of salty wind. If he had known, perhaps he’d go into the town as fast as he could and tell them to save all of his writings, tell them to forget about him and just make sure the journals weren’t ever destroyed. But he did not.

-

25 minutes and he took a painful breath, wincing and enduring it because he did not deserve to hurt. His thumb was gone, and the pulse of it was the only thing he had found solace in after years of changing views and mirror conversations. He had stood up and went in the other direction as he heard the sound of voices. The grass scattered out below him as he stepped into the hot sand, boots masking the heat and making him feel heavier and hotter. 

Maybe if he’d known that in 25 minutes, he’d never have the chance to again, he’d reevaluate his life. Perhaps he’d have told stories to the children if they weren’t scared when they found him alone in the greenery with his missing thumb. Perhaps he’d remember the book he’d left in the dead ground beneath the tree. 

-

19 minutes left. He opened the door of a house, revealing the smooth wooden floors and the faint smell of cleaning supplies. Upon entering, sand is kicked silently into the doorway, hitting the floor.

14 minutes and the doorway is free of all sand. His boots are not sparkling, they are still layered with a disgusting mix of wet sand and dirt, and placed into an unkempt, hidden closet. The hinges scream, although they aren’t as old as he is. The closet door barely shuts, rusty hangers hitting against the back. Eren puts the broom he had used against it, and walks into the main room. The house is small, especially when it’s packed with journals and books that had been banned before the shifters disappeared with the walls and most of humanity . Bindings broke and used well, they are covered with dust and not shining at all. Eren picks up his blankets - light - thrown haphazardly over the bed, and places them to the side. He sits on the edge of the mattress, and watches the darkness in windows that are blinded over. The walls don’t look as clean in the dark. For such an older age - far too old, the comfort is not optimal or healthy. The dust doesn’t help his breathing. It’s like a dungeon.

Eren laughed a bitter laugh. He was never good at cleaning without direction, not really.

If he knew that in 14 minutes he’d reach the end of his immortality, perhaps he would look through those books again. Perhaps he would pick up his boots and scrub them clean. Perhaps he would pick up the journals and wipe off the dust. Perhaps he would open the blinds and let the light reach the walls and his eyes.

_

10 minutes.

He closed his eyes and reached into the past. Noises and scenes that would have once given him nightmares are now nostalgic reminder of what he no longer has. He finds it disgusting. The sound of screams and tears mixed with laughter and friendship is more friendly to him then the peace he should have now. He holds onto the memories as he has everyday, trying to remember details he’s all but forgotten. Even holding onto them so tightly doesn’t prevent them from falling away. The crest - still visible but almost not - on his wrist is now just another reminder of his failure. Horrors replay in his mind, and the choices he could have made haunt him even still. The people he saw laughing and the fear he sees in their eyes create the feeling of longing and failure. He has felt both many times before, and now they’ve descended into a constant. The memories themselves are worth it, no matter how much he hates what he believes. 

This is his more than daily routine.

With knowledge of his demise occurring in 10 minutes, perhaps he’d see his past as his successes. Perhaps he’d think of times when he was able to be a hero. Perhaps he’d remember the warmth of love and not the burn of blood and hate. Perhaps he’d think of humanity and where they are now. Perhaps he’d think himself part of it.

_  
5 minutes and he walks on the shore barefoot.

He kicks a shell absentmindedly, staring into the abyss of the blue sky that means nothing to him now. A sandcastle built by children lies a few feet ahead, and he takes a certain caution as to not destroy it. His steps echo into nothing but the splash of cold water. Wind whips his hair roughly, tossing it around. With his fingers held together, he pushes the strands away from his face. He watches ripples and foam, hating when the fortress of water breaks down at his feet, building and collapsing. The seagulls’ cries rings soft in his ears, and the ocean loud. He thinks the water is never as blue as it looks; it’s more clear and green. It only reflects the sky from far away.

He thinks about how much the ocean means. To him alone, it’s not much.

If he knew that 5 minutes were left of his life, perhaps he’d see blue again.  
_

1 minute and a sharp pain stabs into the entirety of his left arm. 

His legs shake painfully. and tremors rip through his body, making him collapse to his knees and struggle in the sand. His muscles weaken, numb, and they feel as if they were never there. Scars bloom like annual flowers, roots ripping through skin and vessels, reopening once again. Knives cut into his head, ripping and pulling, painful and pulsing. He lurches forward, thoughts rapidly firing in his mind full of regrets. His body begins to convulse, every part singing off key as the nerves malfunction, brain shutting down functions and pain spreading in series. Tears build at his eyelids, falling off with each erratic motion, and he can feel his end approaching. He doesn’t want this.  
-

0 minutes and Eren Yeager dies with the taste of iron seawater and a sky he can’t see the end of.

**Author's Note:**

> Ignore any tense mistakes. I know it's sloppy and I'll probably edit it later. Maybe. 
> 
> Everyone's dead. Haha.


End file.
